


Parting Worlds

by jackandlanterns



Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: AU, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pick-Up Lines, Sormik Week 2017, Tainted Mikleo, a few POV switches, angel! Mikleo, based off an artist's works, i mean zaveids in there and he is a living pick-up line, kid sormik, knight and angel au, knight! Sorey, marigolds are god, sormikweek2k17, sorta - Freeform, there's a fair bit of fluff and a lot of stuff in between, zaveid is sassy..but i mean what's new
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-02 05:52:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11503104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackandlanterns/pseuds/jackandlanterns
Summary: “I’m Sorey,” he says, with the glow of the moon on his hair, and Mikleo smiles, slow and wide.“I know.”In a world on the brink of calamity, darkened by the promise of war, two boys meet and become fast friends.The only twist is that one's an angel.





	1. Remnants of Elysia

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for violence, language, death (second chapter mostly)
> 
> i also give most of the credit to the lovely artist who created this au (http://looveel-realm.tumblr.com/) go check their art out! please! it's absolutely amazing and i could probably rant for the next three years about how good it is!
> 
> written for day 7 of sormik week: family/fate

_“I’m Sorey,” he says, with the glow of the moon on his hair, and Mikleo smiles, slow and wide.  
“I know.”_

_Humans bring calamity._  
It was the first thing Mikleo ever learned. To keep his head down, to hide and avoid. Of course, young as he was, he had never even seen a human, and constantly pestered Natalie for tales of legendary warriors and knights. She’d oblige him, of course, when faced with his pleading eyes; a weapon he’d learned to yield at the tender age of five.  
It rings through his mind every now and then; every time he catches a glimpse of smoke curling through the treetops, every time a delighted laugh falls on his straining ears, every time he’s tempted to peek at what lies beyond the safe comfort of the forest.  


_Camlann, Camlann._  
The forest resounds with his being; the trees feel as a second skin. Yet, despite that, Mikleo’s heart leads him further astray, desires tangling him in his slight footsteps of daring, reaching beyond his imaginary line every day.  
He’s hardly made much progress. The echoing words remain when he reaches his solid boundary of earth and trees. He takes one step more, and retreats for the day. Testing his courage. Maybe, someday, he’ll muster enough determination to dismiss it. The words of warning- _humans bring calamity._  


Someday, he’ll take the last step, feel the weathered stones under his own feet. Someday, he’ll touch the walls of one of the wooden huts, shambled and wrecked and grimy and so _human_. Someday, he’ll be in the village- Camlann.  
He tells himself this every day.  
Today, though, he just sits in his favorite oak tree. Feeling the cold bite of the wind on his numb skin, the smooth knob of the branch rub against his fingers. He sits and faces the sun and wishes.

 

It’s just a normal day.  
Gramps asks him to fetch water from the well. Sorey runs.  
Gramps asks him to sweep the creaky floorboards. _Sorey runs._  
He knows he’ll have to do it later, of course. And Gramps, regarding his hasty departure with a vaguely disapproving kind of slumped posture with begrudging acceptance, knows Sorey will do it. Eventually.  
It’s just a normal day, so Sorey absolutely _has_ to check in on his little marigold’s progress.  
His favorite thing to do was explore, explore, and explore some more. That was how he’d found the _prettiest_ flower he’d ever seen in his entire life, tucked behind a crumbling cornerstone of the Knight memorial placed at the edge of the Forest of Perdition.  
Naturally, it had been self-determined as _his._  


Today, he’d brought his little doll. A traveling merchant passing through Camlann had given it to him with a little smile, pleased at his awed grin. It had been his good-luck charm since he was four-years old, and he was sure it’d keep his marigold intact.  
Hesitant as he was to leave it in the hands of nature, Sorey knew the doll would make the flower grow taller. His marigold would get a ton of rain, now, and he wouldn’t have to dump droplets of water from his satchel on it every day and do his little ceremonial prayer.  
Sorey stands up, brushing dirt from his trousers. He was ready.  


He was going to see uncharted lands, and become a knight. _All knights_ were brave. And so, Sorey decides sagely that breaching the line of trees- the very trees Gramps had expressly lectured him never to pass- was brave, and by extension knightly, and was first and foremost his mission as a knight.  
The whisper of shadows on his skin, abrupt as soon as he passes the first oak, feels cold, and unusual, but Sorey presses on. Because he’s a knight, and knights don’t shiver or complain or even _think_ of turning back.  
His fingers, tanned from a healthy life of sun, are curled into resolute fists.  
Sunlight patches through scraggly branches in hazy beams. It is, undoubtedly, an ethereal sight; as haunting as it is beautiful. The leaves float down in the air, almost as quiet as the air itself. Not even a breeze rustles the bushes.  


All of this, of course, goes right over Sorey’s head. He’s too busy pretending like there isn’t raised goosebumps on his arms, because he’s a knight.  
Sorey thinks he could gawk at the beautiful colors of the red leaves forever, if the air wasn’t so brisk and chilling on his skin. It is, after all, autumn.  
Sorey isn’t quite sure how far he’d even gone. His legs seem to move without his will, continuing deeper into the stretch of a worn trail. They follow some will unbidden.  
The first hint he gets that everything he’s ever known is about to change is the scratch of thistle on his legs. Something so subtle, it goes right by him. He’s used to being scratched up from playing and fighting with the other kids in Camlann.  
The second hint is the dirt beneath his shoes growing more wet and indescribably earthy, unusually pliant under the slight imprint of his feet.  
The third hint, he misses entirely, because he catches sight of...something.  


To say the being was beautiful would be an entirely underwhelming description. The attachments to its back, complete with sleek feathers outlined by the glow of the sun, can only be described as small _wings_ , reminiscent of the falcons Sorey sometimes sees soaring over Camlann. Wings that seem as alive as its hair, shifting under the cool whisk of the wind. A simple white gown sweeps over narrow, pale shoulders, an expanse of creamy skin that melts into a soft landscape of muscles and shadows.  
Sorey couldn’t seem to stop looking. It seems unearthly, undeserving of the dreary dull of life on the branches of the oak tree. Maybe Sorey is strange, because all he wants to do is touch its hair. Just once. It looks so _soft_. He watches, hypnotized, until he is slapped out of it by the bite of an ant on his thigh.  
_Ow!_  
Sorey smacks at it, leaves rustling with his errant hand.  


“Who’s there?” A frantic voice yelps, and Sorey spins back to see the creature, panicked and looking in his direction. When it’s turned around, it’s obvious that it looks just like a human boy. Except, with wings and a graceful kind of beauty.  
And then, because Sorey’s mouth has absolutely _no_ filter, the first thing Sorey says is “You’re really pretty.”

 

The only thing he processes, between his shock and his involuntary leap to the ground, is that whatever-it-is looks _odd_. It doesn’t have wings.  
Therefore, human. Mikleo’s sluggish brain works through that bit, and doesn’t even attempt to _process_ those words, because, well, there’s no way he _can_ process them.  
“What’s your name?” The thing asks, beaming widely, and Mikleo’s brain finally shifts into motion, giving him the delayed reaction of shooting backwards so abruptly he falls on his butt on the ground.  
“ _Agh-_ ” Mikleo chokes, making some sort of incomprehensible noise as he scrambles back. He can hardly be blamed; he’d never _actually_ expected to come face-to face with a human, _ever_. Even in his imaginings of walking through Camlann. And here he was, scared out of his skin by the violent intrudence on _his_ forest in _his_ domain. His heart is still thumping wildly from the initial scare, and even now, eyes locked with the human's, there's several parts of him that are screaming to run, _humans bring calamity_ , that almost overshadow his curiosity.  
The human tapped his lips. Pink, plump. “Do all angels have such weird names?”  


The novelty’s worn over, just like that. Well, not entirely, but it’s enough for Mikleo to give him an annoyed look, unamused at his sass. However, the innocent, wide-eyed face he is met with tells him that it is a genuine question.  
Mikleo regains his sense of bearing and straightens, mouth returning to a functioning state. “Of course not. I’m Mikleo.”  
“Cool! I'm Sorey.”  
The human beams, sticking a hand out.  
Mikleo doesn't return the gesture, too busy staring at his lack of wings. Sorey seems to be busy looking at his, even as his hand drops somewhat awkwardly.  


“Can I…” Sorey starts, and swallows, loud and thick in the quiet air.  
“Hmm?” Mikleo turns his gaze to meet Sorey's, blinking at the unusual green. A human color.  
It's all very surreal.  
Sorey gestured at his wings. “Can I…”  
Mikleo stares. They’d barely even just met- even now, his head was screaming at him - _humans, calamity, calamity, taint_ \- and he's definitely still processing, and yet this human wanted to-  
“Not touch!” Sorey says quickly, noting Mikleo’s alarmed expression. “I meant, uh. To see them.”  
“What?” Mikleo blinks, but his shoulders slump in relief when he finally realizes what Sorey’s asking him to do. Hesitation has him shifting from foot to foot nervously, but he complies and turns around, every sense hyper-aware of what could happen when Mikleo isn’t watching this human.  
He only really obeys because he’s sure he’s as curious as Sorey is, and the only way he'd get his own questions answered is if he returns the favor. He thinks that's how humans work, anyway.  


He lifts the tip of one wing, spreading it out, and just as quickly drops it, shy. His wings shuffle on his back at his restrained anxiety.  
“Wow,” Sorey breathes, and it sounds almost _reverent_. Mikleo twists back around, uncomfortable at the attention, and finds Sorey’s eyes wide with wonder.  
“Your turn,” Mikleo says, and Sorey pinches his eyebrows together.  
“Why…” Sorey starts to say, but just closes his mouth and turns around as well.  
Mikleo’s eyes rake over the quite obvious _lack_ of wings- just the smooth fit of the human’s shirt over his shoulderblades- in fascination. He probably could have stared for quite some time- a _human_ \- but Sorey turns back almost as quick as Mikleo had.  
Mikleo hums. “...Neat.”

Mikleo steals his ‘human’ food from the satchel slung over his shoulder when Sorey's not looking, intrigued. Sorey pokes at his wings when they're both less shy and learns of how ticklish he is, especially at the little juncture between his shoulders and the beginnings of his wings.  
Thus begins the start of a beautiful friendship.  
“This is…” _heavenly_ would be his first word of choice. The stuff was so _good_ ; fresh and warm and fluffy but simultaneously not on his tongue. Mikleo chews on it, unsure of how to describe it. “Amazing,” Mikleo says, mouth full, and closes his eyes in bliss.  
“What, bread?” Sorey squints at him. “You’re kind of a weirdo, Mikleo.”  
Mikleo swallows and parts his mouth in complaint. “What? No, I’m not!”  
Sorey starts to say something, probably to make fun of him more, but Mikleo interrupts him before _that_ begins all over again. “Do you have more?”  
Sorey pouts at his interruption, but answers with a shake of his head. “I can bring more tomorrow, if you want.”  
“Tomorrow?” It’s Mikleo’s turn to pout.  
The other boy huffs a laugh. “Sorry,” he says, sounding vaguely apologetic. And then, “Wait, you ate all of it?”  
“It was good," Mikleo tells him in haughty justification.  
“Hey, that was _mine_!” Sorey says, and Mikleo jerks back, laughing, before Sorey can lunge forward to wrestle him.

 

“I’m going to show you something cool,” Sorey tells Mikleo one day, nodding sagely to himself.  
“O...kay?” Mikleo’s tracing his finger in the dirt, head comfortably propped on his elbows as he lays on his stomach. He’s attempting to draw a portrait of Sorey in the indents of the ground. Sorey had told him that the ground was holy. He’s sure that this is human superstition, and it’s worth seeing Sorey’s vaguely disapproving eyes raking over the movement of his hands.  
Sorey’s voice has an edge of frustration to it, which is oddly satisfying. “Stop it.”  
Mikleo smirks at the crude drawing. “No.”  
“Mik _leo,_ ” Sorey whines, and tugs at his sleeve.  
Mikleo rolls his eyes, swiping over his portrait. “Fine, fine.” He stands up, brushing the dirt off of his knees. Sorey eyes him with something akin to interest as his wings flutter, shaking off more of the dirt.  
“Come on, come on, it’s right this way!” Sorey’s beaming as he tugs impatiently on his wrist, and Mikleo follows the motion. Mikleo’s curiosity only grows as Sorey practically hops through the trees in his rush. The infectious enthusiasm has Mikleo jogging to keep up.  


When they get to a small clearing, Sorey stops and whips around, coming dangerously close to knocking into Mikleo as Mikleo’s momentum slows. Mikleo tilts his head, looking around, but there doesn’t seem to be anything particularly eye-catching, which is confusing. (Well, besides the Knight memorial- but he’d seen it several times already, and after the initial awe, it was just a marble statue.)  
“What is it?” Mikleo finally asks.  
Sorey juts his lip out, hands on his hips. “Behind me.” He jabs a thumb at the dirt, and Mikleo finally spots something interesting.  
“You took me to see a flower?” Mikleo asks, but he’s already dropping to his knees, wings giving an excited little flap. He’s a bit too young to control the involuntary movements, and his wings betray his emotions far more than he’d like them to.  


The flower is, admittedly, beautiful. Curved petals glow under the little patch of the sun, leaves small and rounded and perfectly even.  
“It’s my _marigold,_ ” Sorey says with pride, and when Mikleo glances back he sees him puffing his chest out. It’s a ridiculous gesture Mikleo has come to associate with humans, and it just looks cute on him. Like a kitten trying to roar.  
“Hey,” Sorey frowns, and Mikleo realizes he’d voiced that last bit. He can’t find it in himself to feel much regret.  
“It’s okay, Sorey,” Mikleo says, lips quirking, and Sorey colors under his amused gaze, shuffling.  
Odd.  
Mikleo remembers, with an odd flash, their first meeting. _You’re really pretty._  
Mikleo blushes, looking back to the flower and chiding himself. To think he was still flustered after all these months of laughs and jokes.  
Months. He feels a bit special, being taken here; he can see, now, how much the flower actually means to Sorey. It’d become Sorey’s treasure, and he felt awed more at the gesture of trust than the flower itself.  


But…  
“What’s this?” Mikleo murmurs, brushing a layer of dirt off something. It was damp, ominously squishy to the touch, and Mikleo wrinkles his nose when he brushes off some more of the earth to find wide eyes looking at him.  
“H-hey!” Sorey squeaks, and he swats at Mikleo’s hand. “Don’t touch that!”  
“Huh?” Mikleo sets the thing back down gently, complying despite his initial confusion. “Why?”  
“It’s less lucky if you touch it!”  
Mikleo wrinkles his nose. “That makes no sense.”  
“It’s a normin! A good-luck charm. A nice lady gave it to me.”  
“A what now?” Mikleo had to wonder if it was more weird human superstition.  
Sorey puffs out his cheeks. “Whatever.”  
Mikleo frowns, but doesn’t say anything else. The wide fake eyes are kind of creepy, but also oddly...cute.  
Mikleo never says that part.

 

“I’m fairly sure you’re not supposed to water a flower with soup,” Mikleo says dubiously, watching him.  
Sorey frowns at him. “How else does it get the special bone-growing stuff?”  
“The what?”  
“Gramps said stew makes your bones grow.”  
Mikleo refrains from informing that flowers have no bones. He's sure this would only upset Sorey.  
_Stupid humans,_ he thinks, but it's fond and without any weight to it.

 

The day the marigold dies, Sorey cries.  
Mikleo hugs him, and, the next day, there’s a little sapling in the exact same spot.  
“Whoa!” Sorey marvels, and Mikleo can’t help but smile, a tiny little half-smile that Sorey picks up on. “Mikleo! Did you like, fix it with your angel powers?”  
“My what?” Mikleo gives him a bemused look. It seems to be the only thing he’s saying these days. Humans were... _different,_ to say the least. Unusual. Sorey always seemed to leave him with several questions.  
“Your angel powers,” Sorey reiterates, grinning.  
“No,” Mikleo huffs, but then pauses, reconsidering. He _had_ prayed the night before, and though he hadn’t exactly gotten the hang of it yet, perhaps it had worked for the first time. “Maybe.”  
“ _Maybe?_ ” Sorey cries, indignant. “What, is it like, secret or something?”  
Mikleo smirks, taking advantage of the situation. “Yep. Highly secret.”  
“No fair!” Sorey wails. “I tell you everything!”  
Well, that was true. Sorey couldn’t lie to save his life, _and_ he had the added bonus of wanting to tell Mikleo literally _everything,_ because apparently humans liked talking. Or maybe it was just Sorey. Mikleo would never know.  
“That doesn't mean I have to tell you anything,” Mikleo points out, smirking.  
“You-” Sorey blows air out of his cheeks childishly. “-you're gonna pay!”  
Mikleo’s eyes widen as Sorey lunges at him, fingers outstretched.

 

“Do you actually _have_ any super cool angel powers?”  
“What?” Mikleo’s watching him with half-lidded eyes, sleepy from the warmth of the sun on their shared branch. He stretches out, dangling his arm over the side.  
“Like, y’know, bam!” Sorey illustrates with his hands, grinning, as if Mikleo could possibly understand what the gesture even entailed.  
Mikleo frowns, and says as much. “What is that supposed to mean? I don’t need powers. I’m super cool.”  
“I know,” Sorey placates. “But, like, can you _do_ anything super cool?”  
“I don’t like where you’re going with that.” Mikleo says, rolling his eyes.  
Sorey snickers, kicking his legs and jostling the branch. Mikleo frowns at him, and he grins endearingly wide and hooks his knees around, leaning down to hang by his legs. Mikleo watches his descent, Sorey’s hair flipping upside down.  
His face goes red after a few minutes. This sparks a contest on who can hang upside down the longest.  
Mikleo wins, of course.

 

“I’m gonna be a knight someday,” Sorey tells him, one day, with absolutely no context. There’s no lead-in or prerequisite. He just says it, point blank, when Mikleo’s in the middle of trying to get a resilient leaf out of his feathers.  
“Um, I know,” Mikleo says, albeit fondly. Sorey had already mentioned it. Quite a bit, in fact.  
_"What do you mean, I can't have a piece?" Mikleo glares at the offending food; it's some sort of pastry, and the scent alone is mouthwatering. Usually Sorey was forthcoming with his food, but today he just sticks his tongue out and takes another bite.  
"I'm gonna be a knight, Mikleo," Sorey says, with the air of someone who knows they are, in fact, about to impart nonsense logic. "I have to keep my strength up."  
"That's an excuse!" Mikleo points out, and Sorey grins before he starts running and Mikleo gives chase._  
“So you won’t have to hide anymore,” Sorey continues.  


Mikleo stills.  
Fingers pausing on wings.  
It's a very long moment before Mikleo opens his mouth.  
“S...Sorey.” He says, too overcome to say anything else. His eyes feel strangely...wet. His eyelashes seem to tap his eyelids with each rapid blink.  
Sorey grabs his hand, smiling. His hand is warm. That’s the extent of his processing skills.  
“I’m gonna make the world safe for you,” Sorey promises, and even then Mikleo feels a pain in his chest, desperately hoping his ideals don’t outweigh his own safety. But, holding his hand, he can dismiss it.  
Mikleo swipes at his eyes with his sleeve.  
“Oh! A butterfly! Mikleo, look!”  
Mikleo laughs, breath hitching on a tearful exhale, and then he sobs under Sorey’s confused gaze.  
( _"It's just a butterfly. No need to cry over it."  
"You _ idiot _," Mikleo mutters._ )

 

“D’you think, hey, maybe, that humans can be reincarnated?”  
Mikleo scoffs. “Do you even know what that word means?”  
Sorey looks suitably affronted. “Of _course!_ ” He exclaims, matter-of-factly, as if he hadn’t just asked Mikleo about it in the most childish way possible, puffing his cheeks out.  
“Maybe,” Mikleo says, though he does spare a moment to think to himself about it.  
Sorey looks even more outraged at his nonchalant answer, stalking forward as Mikleo backs away. “Hey, I need an _actual_ answer here, _Mikleo_ -” His words break off when he trips over a stone and lands flat on his face. An embarrassed blush creeps over his cheeks as Mikleo dissolves into howling laughter, and that’s the end of the conversation before it’s begun. Mikleo doesn’t even ask Sorey what had made him bring it up- he just laughs, and laughs, more so when Sorey tackles him in vengeance.

 

Mikleo lights down on the tree branch. He’d been practicing short little hops, from tree to tree, and it seemed to be working with the aid of a little flap from his growing wings. Sorey was awed more everyday by the growing expanse, and had told Mikleo of such, leaving the seraph to flush under the praise.  
He kneels, crouching low on the branch, and waits for Sorey. It's their usual time.  


There’s a clamor of voices, painting the landscape with whispers and yells. Mikleo stiffens on the branch, but it’s already too late by the time the first figure shows. Mikleo, habitually, folds his wings and thinks for a wild, unusual second that it’s _Sorey,_ but it’s not.  
To remind him, the first stone clips his wing. The only thing that occupies his mind is that it burns, a piercing hot lance to the sinew of his wings.  
He tumbles over the branch, out of shock more than anything else, like an eerie reminder of his first meeting with Sorey.  
“I knew it!” A voice says. “There’s an angel living here! Just like she said!”  


He lands, and the breath slams out of him in a fiery punch. Mikleo wheezes through collapsed lungs. Everything _aches_. His hands, his hands dig into the dirt, trying to lift himself up. His legs, spurred by the laughs, move to stagger to his feet.  
The second stone is a searing brand on his shoulder. He jolts under the sudden pain, falling to his knees.  
“What’s wrong with it?” A different voice says. “I thought they were all tough and stuff.”  
Mikleo grits his teeth, finally glancing back. It’s a trio of humans, more than Mikleo had ever come face-to-face with in his life. The first boy is young, dirt streaking his dark cheeks and pale blond hair. The second boy looks only slightly older, considerably cleaner-looking and with tan skin. The third, it doesn’t matter because that’s when the second boy winds up for a pitch and Mikleo ducks, hearing the stone whiz by his ear.  


_Hide. Avoid. Calamity._  
His wings shudder along with the rest of him, mouth tasting of dirt and salt.  
He needed to run- needed to-  
But his limbs are frozen. He doesn’t want to turn his back to them and their stones, he doesn’t want to try to run and then be _slower_ , god forbid, and he’s just in a state of frozen panic where his body won’t _move,_ and Mikleo tries, he really does, but he can only stare as one of the boys leans down for more ammunition.  
“ _Hey!_ ” It's a familiar voice, finally, shaking with rage. “ _What are you doing?_ ”  


Mikleo flinches, hurt wings moving to shield his body. It’s instinct. Mikleo’s wings are far less fragile than the rest of him.  
“Protecting the village!” One of the boys say. Mikleo doesn’t know which one. He doesn’t care. “We’re gonna be knights, and we can fight monsters like these!”  
_Monsters?_ Mikleo thinks, and swallows.  
Sorey seems to echo his thoughts, voice shaking with untapped rage. The emotion, so deep in his words, are a weighted pain to Mikleo's chest. Mikleo never thought he’d hear him like that, voice loud and threatening and so _angry_. It...scared him. “Monsters?” He says, eyes icy.  
“Yeah!” One says.  
“They got them laser eyes!” Another chimes in, oblivious to the tense set of Sorey's shoulders.  
“They kill people! Grandma said so!”  
“Get _out,_ ” Sorey snarls, having reached his breaking point. “He’s done _nothing_ to you!”  


Mikleo peeks past his wings, sees the resolve in the other boys' expressions. Sorey wouldn’t make a difference. He knows Sorey will catch up with him later.  
So he gets to his feet, trembling, and runs. Adrenaline forces the impact of his feet into the ground. His sore lungs gasp with every aching breath, but it’s a small price for the growing distance he can manage to put behind him.  
He runs, and runs, and runs.  
There’s nothing but the pound of his legs and the swing of his arms and the slap of his wings against his back, twitching involuntarily and completely out-of-control. The adrenaline is doing weird things to his control.  
When he finally stops, clambering up _their_ oak tree with broken lungs and sweat cooling on his skin, there’s nothing. It’s silent. Everything’s still.  
He curls up. He’s too wary to sleep, so he stays, and watches.  


Sorey comes, eventually, worry making him race to the foot of their tree and climb faster than Mikleo had ever seen him, even when they'd raced only the day before.  
There’s something vulnerable in his eyes. It gets flatter when he sees Mikleo.  
“I’m so _sorry,_ ” Sorey cries, scrambling to get next to him, hands lifting awkwardly to the air as he visibly restrains himself from touching Mikleo, everywhere.  
Mikleo gives him permission by straightening, and Sorey’s hands card through his hair, shaking. It feels nice. That’s about as far as Mikleo’s brain will function. The fingers turn his face, checking for scratches; swipe blood from his cheek, from a branch whipping him in his mindless run. Sorey’s hands shudder down his arms, shaking more than Mikleo, and thread through the feathers on his wings.  


It’s too much.  
“Sorey,” Mikleo says, but Sorey’s expression is so...indescribable that he doesn’t put a stop to it.  
They touch on the spot where the stone had clipped his wing. Mikleo winces, and Sorey- Sorey’s _crying._  
“What, hey, stop-” Mikleo rushes, biting his lip. “Sorey, it’s not your fault-”  
“-I know!” Sorey sobs, more upset than Mikleo was. Each tear is worse than the memory of the impact of stones on his skin.  
“Hey, hey.” Mikleo says, and really it shouldn’t be _Mikleo_ comforting Sorey, but that’s how it ends up. Sorey trembles in his arms, weak and teary and painfully human.  
Mikleo folds his wings around them, warm and soft. Sorey’s getting tears and snot all over his shirt, but he can't find it in him to care.  
They sit, Mikleo wrapped around Sorey and vice versa. They're a tangle of human and angel, balanced precariously on the thick oak.  
The sun is burning on the tips of his feathers.  
And despite everything that had happened today- and seeing _firsthand _how humans had the potential to bring calamity- this close to Sorey, Mikleo can't help but think, _humans really aren't that bad.___

__

__The day after, the X is scrawled in their clearing- Mikleo frowns, and retreats to Elysia. He prays for Sorey’s safety, and all he can do is hope for an answer. It’s certainly not the first time they’d been unable to meet, but after yesterday...Mikleo’s just concerned. A little. He has to fight off the thought that the village boys had cornered him somewhere, alone._ _

__

__This pattern continues for three days. Mikleo’s utterly concerned at this point- he’s almost debating going _into_ Camlann, for god’s sake- when Sorey is what his eyes find on his next step into the clearing.  
“Where-” Mikleo yells, before he lunges at Sorey, eyes raking down his form briefly.  
He’s- well, he’s flusteringly beautiful, as usual, but he doesn’t _appear_ to be injured. Mikleo spares a moment to be glad his prayers worked before he smooths his hands down Sorey’s shoulders nervously, swallowing. “Where- where were you-”  
Sorey doesn’t meet his eyes, mouth quirked in a pained smile. “Gramps gave me a ton of chores,” he says, and Mikleo’s heart twists because he _knows._  
Sorey’s always been terrible at lying. He never thought Sorey would lie to him. At least, not about anything important.  
__

____

“Oh,” Mikleo says. He steps back. His wings curl around him protectively, but he just _hates_ them there, in this moment, and a tiny feather falls off. Mikleo watches it go with a vindictive kind of satisfaction.  
“I’m sorry,” Sorey tells him, and he at least has the decency to meet Mikleo’s eyes this time. “I’ll make it up to you.”  
Mikleo’s mouth works, and he vaguely thinks something about needing _answers, not apologies,_ but he just glares at his wings and forgives him. Like _always._ “You better,” Mikleo mutters, an attempt at their banter, and Sorey gratefully takes it.  


____

__“How’re your wings?”  
Mikleo’s wings are stiff against his back. “Fine.”  
“I mean, with...the stones…”  
“It was nothing my healing magic couldn’t fix.”  
“Oh, you got it, then?” Sorey’s mood instantly shifts to excitement. “Wow! That’s great!”  
“I didn’t ‘get’ it,” Mikleo huffs in mock offense. “I’ve been working at it for-”  
“Months, I know- the point is, you can...uh...use it now?” Sorey’s sentence comes out as a question, and Mikleo snorts.  
“Yeah, I can...uh...use it now.”  
“Stop _mocking_ me, just, be quiet-”  
“Make me,” Mikleo says in challenge, but this doesn’t get the reaction he was expecting at all. Sorey’s _blushing._  
It’s such an odd sight, especially when their roles are always reversed; but he’s definitely gone red, and it’s made Mikleo extremely confused and a little bit flustered himself.  
“I thought I…” Sorey says, so quiet Mikleo knew he was definitely not supposed to hear it.  
And, well, because apparently he’s feeling particularly angelic today, he tosses Sorey another olive branch. “What, you can’t?”  
Sorey narrows his eyes. “Race me to the tree.”  
“I’ll win,” Mikleo says, smirking.  
“Over my dead body-”  
Mikleo wins, of course, and he files away Sorey’s odd reactions for later._ _

__

__(“Oi, where’d my bread go?” Sorey asks, something accusing in his tone, and Mikleo struggles to contain his snicker. Even after more than five years, Mikleo still stole his food all the time. It was almost like a game.  
“That’s confidential,” Mikleo says, to Sorey’s outraged expression.)_ _

__

__"What took _you_ so long?" Mikleo huffs as Sorey emerges into the clearing, dropping from the branch, and Sorey gives him a sheepish grin.  
"Ah, sorry, Gramps wanted me to do the washing," Sorey says, and Mikleo nods, falling into step with him. "Hey...Mikleo."  
"What?" Sorey sounds a little unnerved. It leaves Mikleo looking at him askance, eyes furrowing at the nervous drum of Sorey's fingers on his thighs.  
"I was just wondering..." Sorey says, and then takes a deep breath before the rest of the words fall out. "Have you...have you always lived here alone? You never mention having parents."  
Mikleo twists his mouth, hand going to rub at his forehead. He couldn't say he'd never expected this to come up, eventually. "For good reason."  
"Oh- sorry!" Sorey says quickly, shaking his head. "You don't have to talk about it, I swear, my bad for bringing it up-"  
"-No, it's-" Mikleo sighs, and Sorey falls silent. "It's okay. I did used to have a...guardian, of sorts."  
__

____

"Like Gramps?" Sorey says, and Mikleo remembers that he'd been orphaned.  
"Yes," Mikleo says. "I suppose. Her name was Natalie."  
Sorey waits, patient, and Mikleo's glad, at least, that it's him he's having this conversation with. "She fell," Mikleo admits, looking up to the sliver of blue sky, visible through the gaps between leaves of the trees overhead. "I was too weak back then...I just ran."  
"Fell?" Sorey asks, soft, and Mikleo nods.  
"It's when...angels are tainted by the malevolence humans can emit," Mikleo tries to explain. He isn't sure where to start. "It's gradual, at first, but...when the change happens, it's fast. They lose their soul."  
"I'm not- I'm not giving off this 'malevolence', am I?" Sorey asks, quick, looking a little panicked.  
Mikleo shakes his head. "It's more complicated than that, Sorey."  
"What? How?"  
Mikleo casts his thoughts about, but he can't find a good answer so he runs his hand through his hair and sighs again. "I guess...well, angels can be tainted by their own feelings as well. But it's just...ah..."  
"Okay," Sorey says. "So now you're here."  


____

__Mikleo is grateful for the change in subject, and it's shown in his small smile. "And now I'm here," he agrees. "Do you have food this time?"  
"Insatiable," Sorey grumbles, but he does sit on the ground, slinging his satchel off. "I've got something different."  
"Oh?"  
"Yeah," Sorey says, and there's a flash of teeth before he's pulling out a round shaped...thing with a bushy top and prickly-looking skin. "A merchant came through the village today with some fruit from other countries. I wanted to try it out."  
"What _is_ that?" Mikleo says, eyeing it with a healthy degree of wariness.  
"It's called a pineapple," Sorey tells him. "What, you're too scared to try it?"  
"No, it just looks..." Mikleo stares. "You know. Prickly."  
Sorey laughs. "I haven't cut it yet, Mikleo." He waggles his eyebrows as he pulls out his knife and Mikleo rolls his eyes, restraining a laugh.  
"I hope you know what you're doing."  
"Why, Mikleo, I always do!"  
It's a good day. They laugh over the stickiness of their fingers and forget everything else._ _

__

__“Sorey, look!” Mikleo’s pointer finger traces the outline of a shooting star. Sorey follows, and Mikleo knows when his eyes catch it, because his shoulder jerks next to his.  
They watch as it streaks across, bright white against the dark of a moonlit night.  
“Hey, Mikleo,” Sorey says, after a moment of easy silence.  
“Hmm?” Mikleo’s privately thinking about how nice this is. The easy warmth radiating from Sorey from where they’re connected shoulder to hip is a blessing on his cold skin. He usually never has company when he’s stargazing (though he remembers Natalie sometimes joining him, hushed voice pointing out the constellations he’d never have bothered to learn the name of) and he’s never been happier that Sorey’s _here,_ with him, though there’s an underlying itch of worry in his mind. Sorey had managed to sneak out, but it was their first time meeting so late out at night, and Mikleo found himself more worried than Sorey himself that he would be caught. What if he did? And just stopped coming? Mikleo would never know what had happened.  
“You spacing out or something?”  
“Huh?” Mikleo’s vision blinks back into focus. He then registers the smirk in Sorey’s voice  
He runs back over the sentence mentally. _Spacing out._  
“Ha, ha,” Mikleo mutters, rolling his eyes.  
“No one appreciates me,” Sorey complains, and Mikleo snorts. “I was going to ask if you made a wish. Before you went all empty-ish.”  
“Empty-ish,” Mikleo echoes, and Sorey shrugs.  
“I couldn’t say space again,” Sorey says. “So. Did you make a wish?”  
Mikleo squints at the map of constellations. “Why would I make a wish?”  
__

____

There’s a brief moment of silence, and then Sorey’s moving to sit up. Mikleo makes a noise at the loss of warmth- the night air isn’t very friendly when his wings aren’t wrapped around him- but he’s quickly distracted by Sorey’s outraged expression.  
Mikleo scrambles for some sort of explanation. “Is this...another human thing? Superstition?”  
“It’s not superstition!” Sorey braces his hand on his chest in passion, voice growing slightly in volume. “It’s real! You gotta make a wish on a shooting star, and it’ll come true!”  
“I’ve never heard of this,” Mikleo says, quirking a brow, but he turns back to the sky and closes his eyes. Sorey’s hand shoves his shoulder, breaking him out of it, and he looks back with a slight narrow of his eyes.  
“Well, it’s too late now,” Sorey tells him.  
“What do you mean, it’s too late?” Mikleo glares, throwing up his hands in some plead to the heavens over the apparent idiocy of his friend.  
“You can’t wish _after_ the shooting star already went-”  
“-And why _can't_ I, Sorey-”  
They dissolve into bickering before they end up in roughly the same position again, and Mikleo chews on his lip as he thinks. Finally, he speaks.  


____

“I wish Hyland and Rolance got along,” Mikleo says. “The malevolence is growing.”  
Sorey acknowledges him with a small nod, hair brushing against Mikleo’s cheek. They slip back into their comfortable silence, and Mikleo’s almost forgotten what he’d said by the time Sorey says something.  
“It’s funny,” Sorey murmurs.  
Mikleo doesn’t remember laughing at anything, so he just sits in confused silence until Sorey decides to finish his thought.  
“We all have the same sky,” Sorey’s words are slow. “And we can’t get along.”  
“What do you mean?” Mikleo asks, even though he’s starting to understand what Sorey’s getting at.  
“It’s like...there’s so much fighting. We all share these stars...together. No matter what, even if there’s war...it’s kind of amazing, you know?”  
Mikleo scoffs at what might be one of the _cheesiest_ things he’s heard, and tells Sorey as much. “You’re sounding like you’ve read too many romance books.”  
Sorey nudges his shoulder roughly, but Mikleo’s already braced against it in expectation, so it’s a win.  
“I don’t even like romance books,” Sorey protests, but Mikleo’s already laughing at him.  


____

__It’s nice. Mikleo’s shoulders shake with the force of his laughter, and Sorey’s smiling sheepishly despite himself, and they spend some time curled on the ground. Mikleo’s wings- fluffier and longer from his older age- warm around both of them as they stay, eyes fixated on the beautiful stars above._ _

__

__It’s this night that Mikleo’s thinking of, only a year or two ago, smiling to himself as he waits, when everything falls to ruin.  
The only hint he gets is a faint twitch of anxiety in his stomach. His wings flap around him, heedless of the stinging scrape of the tree branches, and he gasps before his chest tightens, and then he’s gasping more as he fights for air.  
There’s a word for it, but Mikleo can’t even think of it. He can’t think of the possibility that even Elysia's barrier, erected by seraphim before him, has been broken; but he’s facing the facts now, as his breath leaves him in ragged snatches.  
Malevolence.  
What calamity could have-  
“Haah-!” Mikleo slips off the branch, almost a mirror to when he’d been knocked off by a thrown stone. He’s older, now, so his wings snap to save him this time, and he lands fairly gracefully, despite his aching chest. The dirt beneath his toes is grounding, and he finds himself finally able to catch his breath.  
__

____

He's struck cold by the absence of a tingling kind of warmth; the blessing Mikleo had happened upon when he'd first made his home here. Mikleo hurriedly scratches an _X_ in the dirt with his foot- their code- before stumbling in the direction of Elysia.  
The next few hours are a blur of confusion as Mikleo checks over the broken etched sigils, and when he reaches the last one, on the back wall of Mabinogio Ruins, it's only to find it dim as well, no longer giving off a faint glow. As his hands brush over the carved symbol, he finds a long, jagged crack running across what had formerly been one of many sigils for protection. 

____

The books he'd found on seals would be of no help in replacing ones as old as these; he'd already scoured them endlessly to determine the precise meaning of the ruin's sigils, only to fall short of even a mention of them.  
Elysia, the place he'd adopted as home, was no longer safe.  
Mikleo rubs at his forehead, before his next thought is to check on Sorey.  
Despite the _X_ he’d scratched, a warning, Sorey was there anyway, pacing with his teeth firmly on his lip. His hand is scratching at the hair at the nape of his neck, a nervous tic Mikleo’s long since recognized, and his steps are hard and fast, with rapid turns. Mikleo thinks he’d never seen Sorey this nervous, and it’s this that stops him from snapping at Sorey for staying in their clearing.  
Almost.  


____

“I gave you the _signal-_ ” Mikleo says instead of hello, and Sorey’s gaze instantly flicks to his approaching figure.  
“Mikleo!” Sorey cries out, and Mikleo barely blinks before Sorey’s arms are wrapped around him, squeezing so tightly Mikleo yelps.  
“Sorry-” Sorey nuzzles his face into Mikleo’s neck, and, well, that leaves Mikleo _very_ flustered. Thankfully, he blows it off easily, and instead circles his arms back hesitantly, still shocked. His wings drape around Sorey’s shoulders, and Sorey sighs, fingers digging lightly into the small of his back before he pulls back slightly, only enough to glance over Mikleo’s expression.  
“I was so worried,” Sorey says. “Are-are you tainted, or-”  
“What?” Mikleo furrows his eyebrows. “I felt...a surge in malevolence, yes, but…”  
“You feel fine? You aren’t- no headache, no-”  
“I’m _fine,_ Sorey,” Mikleo says, but he’s secretly grateful for the care. “Are you?”  
“Me?” Sorey shakes his head. “Uh...actually…”  
“What happened?” Mikleo asks, a desperate edge to his voice. He knew something must have went down, but-  
Sorey swallows. His eyes break away from Mikleo’s, and Mikleo feels something sinking in the pit of his stomach.  


____

“Rolance launched an attack,” Sorey says, soft, and his hands absentmindedly sweep over the base of Mikleo’s wings. It’s soothing, but his words are anything but.  
“W-what-” Mikleo’s wings flutter in agitation. “What do you mean-”  
“We're going to war.”  
Mikleo’s eyes widen at the information, thoughts sparking off in different directions. _Calamity- human-knight-_ “S-Sorey!”  
Sorey’s thumbs sweep over his feathers, but he still isn’t looking at Mikleo. There’s something he isn’t saying, and both of them know it.  
Mikleo feels, rather than sees, a few feathers flutter to the ground. He doesn’t pay attention to it- it’s been happening for a while- and his fists tighten in the fabric of Sorey’s dark blue shirt. 

____

Mikleo always knew Sorey would become a knight, but not when it was like _this_ \- not now, not when Hyland and Rolance faced a drawn-out mess of a war.  
“I have to,” Sorey tells him, voice low, and Mikleo’s face twists, contorts- in what, he doesn’t know, but his chest is tightening again and it _isn’t_ from the malevolence-  
“No! No, you don’t!” Mikleo cries, burying his head in Sorey’s shirt, but he can feel Sorey shaking his head.  
“Mikleo,” Sorey says, soft, and he doesn’t say anything else.  
Mikleo’s eyes are burning, tears pricking at his eyes, and the world’s going blurry through the film of water. “Don’t just- don’t-please-”  
He doesn’t what he’s begging Sorey for. To not go, not die, not _leave him here-_  
“I have to make it safe for you, remember?” Sorey sounds a bit choked, which _damnit,_ he’s not allowed to cry too, he’s the one _leaving._ To fight for peace. And he’s so fragile- he has only his own bones, he doesn’t have wings or magic and he’s just one human, one human against another, and he doesn’t have the strength of prayer or _anything,_ he’s just human. He’s just human.  


____

“You don’t have to make it safe for me!” Mikleo cries. “I’m fine living like this! I just want you to stay _here_ -” _Safe,_ he doesn’t add, but Sorey’s trembling in his arms.  
“Mikleo, I have to go,” Sorey says.  
“No, don’t- I don’t-”  
Mikleo doesn’t remember ever being this upset, and a few more of his feathers flutter away. He hates them. He hates it. He hates that Sorey thinks he has to save him and that Sorey’s fighting because he’s a seraph or because of some stupid dream of peace and co-existence, when all he wants is for Sorey to stay where there aren’t arrows or swords or the pungent stench of blood. He hates being a seraph, he hates that Sorey’s human and different and so _breakable._  
Sorey’s tears are cold when they drip onto his skin.  
And Mikleo makes his decision, jaw tightening.  


____

“I’m coming,” Mikleo says evenly.  
Sorey digs his hands into Mikleo’s wings, and Mikleo snaps them away with a jolt of pain, giving Sorey a shocked look. Sorey's mouth tightens with guilt before his expression freezes over with determination.  
“No,” Sorey tells him firmly. “You’re not coming. You’re staying here.”  
“Don’t tell me what to do!” He has to. He _has_ to- it’s the only way Sorey will get out of it all alive, and he’s not risking anything. They would come back, together, and there was no way Mikleo was letting him go alone.  
Sorey’s voice is rough when he responds. “You’re _not_ coming, Mikleo.”  
“Yes I _am._ ”  
“You’re a seraph. You don’t need to get involved!”  
Mikleo jerks away, frustrated tears coming back to his eyes. “You think I don’t _know that_?” He shouts, wings flared angrily behind him, and another feather scatters.  
Sorey watches it go, something unreadable in his eyes. The anger he’d had melted away, shifting into an expression Mikleo didn’t like at all.  
“That’s _exactly_ why you aren’t coming,” Sorey whispers, so much quieter than Mikleo’s shout. “It’ll be so much worse there.”  


____

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t _matter,_ because Mikleo’s already tainted. He hates being an angel, he hates being so _different_ from Sorey, and the sight of feathers falling haven't been a surprise for months. Especially since he’d wanted so much more- since he wanted more from Sorey than just ‘friends’, since he’d started looking more and hating his wings more.  
He’s already tainted. How could a war possibly taint him more than his own desires already had?  


____

“You’ll fall,” Sorey murmurs, eyes tracing over his white wings with so much care and adoration that Mikleo can almost forget what it feels like to hate them. “I need you to stay. Please.”  
Mikleo presses his lips together. He’s always been stubborn and that’s hardly changing now. “I’m _coming,_ ” he says with finality, and finally Sorey relents.  
“Alright,” Sorey looks at the ground, shifting to lie down. His eyes just look tired. “Come here.”  
Mikleo’s a little surprised Sorey had agreed- they’d disagreed before, but never had they fought like _this_ \- but he’s relieved. He could _protect_ Sorey. He’d improved so much at his control over his artes. Guilt twinges in his stomach over yelling, making Sorey look so exhausted, but he shakes it away- it was a two-sided fight, after all- as he steps back into Sorey’s arms, wings lowering.  


____

__When they were younger, they’d nap together, limbs tangled hopelessly, and it never mattered if Mikleo was an angel because his wings were just extra warmth. But there’d been a distance between them ever since Sorey had started blushing and leaving space between them.  
It was gone, now. They were just here, and it felt right.  
They’re both still crying, but it’s easier when they’re like this, curled around each other. Mikleo still wishes he could act on everything he’s feeling; he wants nothing more than to kiss Sorey until they’re both breathless and there’s no war and it’s just them in the quiet of the forest they’d grown up together in.  
Mikleo doesn’t remember falling asleep. He just remembers the quiet chirp of crickets in the darkness, and the warmth of Sorey’s body, and feeling more comfortable and at-home than he has in such a long time, though they’re both still upset, and wishing he could just press so close that the entire world would fade away._ _


	2. Camlann

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, warnings for violence, language, and death

When he wakes up, he’s not cold, exactly- his wings have wrapped around him, but he’s not as warm as he had been before. This lack of heat makes his eyes slide open, vision hazy.  
“Sorey…” he slurs, naming the absent body of warmth, and then everything from yesterday slams into him, all at once.  
The war. Sorey, enrolling as a knight. Their fight. Sorey’s suspicious agreeability after trading angry words.  
The betrayal washes over him in an angry shock. Mikleo staggers to his feet, glancing around, but it’s obvious Sorey’s not there.  
“Sorey!” he yells, his words melting into the shadows of trees and moss.  
Nothing.  


He had expected it, but perhaps some small part of him was hoping for Sorey to just duck around a giant oak and smile, and tell him it was a prank, and were they ready to leave yet?  
Mikleo snaps out his wings and starts running, sleepiness forgotten. He leaps onto a branch with a hard thrust of his wings, and takes off.  
His first time out of the forest, and it’s overshadowed by his growing sense of numbness. He still felt the sting of betrayal- how could Sorey _trick_ him like this- but he was more saddened by the rest of it all. Sorey leaving to fight in the war, the growing malevolence in the air, the aching reminder that humans were so hateful to go to war.  
It goes against everything he’s been told. To fly, right in the direction of the darkened sky; to fly, where his chest begins to tighten and he has to land because he’s getting too close.  
To go, towards calamity and towards humans.  


“You, there!” A voice calls, and Mikleo’s head snaps around. It’s a seraph- his eyes widen, surprised at finding another, another like him- and he’s marching towards Mikleo, a breastplate of shining armor strapped to his chest, a sword hooked at his side. The helmet adorning his face makes a metallic clang with every step; his wings are a dusky brown, tips splashed jet black, complemented by the sleek red of his down feathers. There are patches of bare wing; Mikleo sees this, and knows he is falling, just like Mikleo. The stripes on his leather gloves seem to indicate some sort of higher ranking, so Mikleo figures he should tread carefully.  
Then he opens his mouth, eyes set in a hard line. “Which sect do you hail from, brother?”  
Mikleo shakes his head. “I haven’t enrolled yet. I’m looking for a friend.”  


The seraph snorts. “We have an army of fifteen thousand. You have to have some idea what you’re doing.”  
Mikleo shakes his head again, slightly annoyed at the condescending tone. “He can’t have gotten there, yet. It’s a day’s walk from where I came from.”  
“What, you from the country?”  
Mikleo falls into pace next to the seraph, their wings jostling slightly before Mikleo adjusts to give him more space. “From the forest, sir.”  
He barks a short laugh. “There’s many forests in the world, boy.”  
Mikleo glares at the horizon as if it had personally offended him. “Next to Camlann,” he clarifies. “Aroundight Forest.”  
“Never heard of it.”  
Mikleo has to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. “The humans call it the Forest of Perdition.”  
“Ah, yes,” the man says. “I know that name.”  
Mikleo shrugs. It didn’t matter much to him. They walk in silence for an awkward few more seconds before the other man speaks up again.  


“It’s a short walk from this place to the barracks,” the seraph says, foot crunching into the earthy leaves. “You’d best hurry.”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“Good to have you, brother,” the seraph says, and claps a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll see you out there. Don’t get tainted, you hear?”  
“Thank you,” Mikleo says, feeling a bit intimidated, and breaks into a jog. Sure enough, the forest thins, and Mikleo can see the bare expanse of smooth rock. Glaveid Basin.  
He’s always ran a lot, so it’s hardly much effort to keep jogging. His feet slap on the rock as he runs, and if he squints he can finally see the beginnings of the camp beginning to form. And then, the large line of people- winding around a huge rock, which led into the entrance, guarded by two soldiers, stationed unmoving next to two torches.  
A makeshift table was set up adjacent to the entrance, and if Mikleo looked harder he could make out the form of a scribe, waving people past after a minute or so of what must be writing.  
Sorey had to be in the line. It was his only hope.  


Thankfully, his wings don’t seem to attract attention. Mikleo could only assume there were other seraphim in the army. It was almost an awful irony; that the only time there was peace between seraphim and humans was when they helped in a terrible war. They were probably hoping to bring coexistence, that might just as soon be forgotten when it all ended and the debt of saved lives was unimportant in safety.  
Mikleo could only hope history didn’t repeat itself.  
“Sorey!” Mikleo calls, and finally reaches the entrance.  
“Move along. There’s a line here,” one of the soldiers say, and Mikleo nods, repressing the urge to inform them that _yes, he knows._  


“Sorey!” Mikleo calls again, scanning unfamiliar faces as he follows the line. Tired, drawn faces that don’t match what he’s looking for. “Sorey!”  
Some people look vaguely irritated as he calls, but he couldn’t care less. There’s a growing sense of urgency in him, and he can’t help the slight panic in his voice as he yells. “Sorey!”  
Hands land on his shoulders, making his wings flare up as he twists.  
“What are you _doing_ here?” a voice hisses, and it’s unmistakably Sorey. His wings lower a bit in recognition.  
“I could ask _you_ the same thing!” Mikleo gets up in his face, trying to ignore how green his eyes are and how pretty- _goddamnit, this was not the time for these kinds of thoughts_. He’s irritated.  
“Mikleo, you can’t-” Sorey starts, but Mikleo shoves his hands off his shoulders before he can continue.  


“No. _I’m_ going to speak, and _you’re_ going to _listen._ Understand?” Mikleo snarls, and Sorey’s eyes widen a bit before he steps back.  
“I’m here because I can fight. I’m not going to sit back and be useless while you fight for your life. I want to help too!”  
“I just didn’t want you dragged into this, I want you to be safe-” Sorey starts, biting his lip, but Mikleo’s not going to let him go there.  
“-You think that’s not how I feel?” Mikleo bites. They’re probably making a scene. “Get over yourself. I want _both of us_ to be safe.”  


“ _Neither of us_ will be safe if you’re tainted!” Sorey argues, but he looks more weary.  


Mikleo almost yells he _already is,_ but then Sorey would get worried or try to send him back or blame it on himself, because he constantly does things like that. So he just meets Sorey’s eyes head-on and says, “I won’t.”  
“You don’t know that.”  
“I’m not helpless!” Mikleo’s wings arch behind him in agitation. “Sorey, I’m not being dragged into this. I _want_ to be here, and I _want_ to help. For _both_ of us.”  
Sorey sighs, and his shoulders slump in surrender. “Alright.”  
“Alright?” Mikleo echoes. “Do you mean that this time?”  
Sorey’s eyes hold a tinge of guilt, but he smiles, a bit pained. “How can I argue when you put it like that?”

A red-headed girl, clad in black and dark brown armor, introduces herself to them as ‘Rose’. She’d been near the entrance, and as soon as she’d heard their sect number, she’d greeted them with cheery enthusiasm as ‘one of their own’. Mikleo was wary of her instant affection towards them, but he couldn’t really find a reason to protest. At least one of the people they’d be rooming with would be nice.  
“Oh, I figure I should tell you a bit about everyone else. You’ll see this blond girl with gold-white wings- her name’s Edna. Don’t….uh….underestimate her.”  
“What? Why?” Mikleo asks, and Rose grimaces.  
“Just...I don’t recommend it,” Rose says, and leaves it at that. “Then, there’s Lailah- oh, we’re almost there. Never mind. You’ll meet ‘em soon enough.”  
_Almost there? Our tent must be pretty close to the entrance,_ Mikleo muses.  


Their assigned sect is...interesting. Mikleo’s assaulted by a man with long white hair the second he parts the door to their barrack, and all Mikleo can register are his wings, an ashy gray speckled with green, before the man speaks. Very loudly.  
“Damn, those are some _thick_ wings,” the man says, smirking, and it’s all very surreal because he’s half-naked, what the _hell_. Mikleo’s wings stiffen, flitting back past his shoulders before Sorey can even glance at him in concern.  
He feels...uncomfortable. That's the only emotion that can accurately define the wrangling mess of feelings twisting in his stomach.  
“Ignore Zaveid,” Rose says. “I usually do.”  


“Your loss,” the man who must be Zaveid says. “I got ladies lining up to catch a look of these muscles. I hardly need you to look at me.”  
Mikleo decides, then, that he doesn’t very much like Zaveid. “You know, I’ll take your word for it.”  
Zaveid pouts. “Don’t listen to Rose. She’s just bitter because-”  
“-That’s enough.” Rose says irritably, and the blond girl- must be Edna- looks intrigued at the prospect of a weakness.  
“Oh?” she says, lips curling up in a little smirk.  


Rose quickly switches techniques to placating. “Hey, that's fine, no one needs to, ah, you know-”  
“-I embarrassed her in front of _Alisha Diphda._ ” Zaveid says, and Rose flushes a deep scarlet, down to the roots of her hair.  
“Oh, my! The peace negotiator?” A woman with russet wings and long hair covers her mouth with her hand, eyes sparkling. Peace negotiator? Mikleo could only hope this ‘Alisha’ had succeeded.  
“Shut up, you're being ridiculous-!” Rose protests unconvincingly, skin tone betraying her.  
Edna looks uninterested, all at once. She sighs, and mutters something Mikleo interprets as _sick of all these damn pining humans,_ or something along those lines.  
The group dissolves into bickering.  


“Will you all _shut up?_ ” A man roars, and Mikleo starts, finding that the lump of blankets in the corner of the room was actually a person. “I’m trying to _sleep_!”  
“No one cares, Dezel.” Edna deadpans.  
“ _Ed_ na!” The long-haired woman who introduced herself as Lailah chides.  
“What? It’s true.”  
Mikleo can’t help but think their sect is _loud._

Battle is...hard. Bloody. Full of the screams and shrieks of dying men, the moans of the wounded, the rapid orders of commanders, the whistle of arrows, the quiet _shing_ of unsheathing swords and the crash of them in combat. Full of magical sigils, the clunk of armor on shifting wings, the cries of victory and despair, for those of fallen comrades and enemies.  
Perhaps, most noticeably, it is full of malevolence. Mikleo would find it hard to breathe, if he was as pure as he had once been. Now, the malevolence just beckons to his skin. With every cast of his artes, every man he heals, he grows more and more tired. He’s sure, with every step he takes, that the next will leave him as a fallen angel.  
But he won’t give in. 

“Please tell me you’re not going to eat that,” Mikleo says, and there’s genuine concern in his voice because... _well._  
Zaveid had in his hands an extremely shady-looking mushroom, and he was staring at it contemplatively. “Mikboy, a man needs protein.”  
Mikleo glances over to Sorey, who’s merely lifting a spoon of cold porridge to his lips out of his wooden bowl with a raised eyebrow. Sorey shrugs his shoulders in a wordless _well, don’t look at me_ kind of way and Mikleo regrets even trying.  


“Seriously, that thing could be poisonous,” Mikleo tries again, eyes going back to the spotted _thing._ “Where’d you even find it?”  
Zaveid ignores his question. “Hmm...maybe if I boil it…” He mutters to himself.  
“We don’t have anything to boil it with,” Mikleo tells him, and then frowns. “Wait, no, just don’t eat it at all- you can’t really be thinking…”  
“Where’d Lailah go?” Zaveid says, still ignoring him, and Mikleo sighs, hoping the fire seraph would have better luck. “Armory.”  
“Thanks, Mikky.”  
Mikleo sighs, unsure if it’s at the nickname or the wind seraph himself. “Sure.”  
Sorey has another spoon of porridge to his mouth when Mikleo looks back at him. “How is he alive?”  
Sorey just shrugs again.

He hates that his skin, pale and in contrast to Sorey’s, is a constant reminder of the gap between them. How his eyes, the unique purple, are merely a symbol of the hate blurring their species. How his wings sit heavy on his shoulder blades, too tired, barely ever flutter, as if Mikleo can just _forget_ they’re there and think he’s _human_ and he and Sorey aren’t that different after all and their differences don’t _matter_ and he could forgive himself for wanting more.  
But then, his cream-white skin reminds him. He blinks, and his wings shift with every step, familiar and unassuming but oh-so- _massive_ and awkward to him, surrounded by humans with an obvious lack thereof.  


Reflecting the wishes he holds, the wishes he buries inside and tries to push to the back of his mind, his wings start to lose feathers. He wakes, and three or so feathers are scattered on his bed. He hardly ever checks anymore. He knows they’re there.  
He never thought he'd hate his wings.  
Of course, Mikleo hadn't thought about a lot of things when he was younger.  
_(And he never thought he’d meet Sorey, either.)_  
Like how he couldn't possibly relate to Sorey like other humans. When it was just him and Sorey, it'd felt like they could burn any bridges between them.  


Now, in the war…  
Mikleo let out a breath, eyes fixed unwaveringly on the North Star. Steady. Consistent across everyone's sky.  
Mikleo's lips curl into a wry smile.  
“Everyone shares the same stars, huh…”  
He sits, and watches, alone, the moon glowing on starlit feathers. Feathers that leave him, one by one, and slowly deconstruct the careful barrier between him and humans, under the light of their constellations.

“Sorey, cover me!” Rose shouts, felling her opponent with a well-placed dagger. Mikleo winces at the rush of malevolence. It’s leaving him oddly empty-headed. Their voices are slightly muted, as if he was under a glass and there was a barrier between him and all noise.  
Sorey twists between the clashing soldiers- there seemed to be no end- and follows Rose’s heels. She’s targeting a seraph that’s been killing Rolance’s soldiers left and right.  
It makes Mikleo sick, but he goes to help them, casting a sigil to summon water against a soldier that’s tailing them. Sorey’s busy knocking out the man’s partner (he avoided killing whenever he could, which made Mikleo relieved- he was still, in some regards, the boy Mikleo had grown up with) so Mikleo takes care of the man with a sudden drain to his energy. The prayer he’d sent to keep Sorey safe was the only magical use he could sustain anymore, and fighting with anything but his staff was a struggle.  
“Thanks, Mikleo!” Sorey shouts, and Mikleo nods wearily, turning at the flash of a sword in his peripheral. He’s too busy warding off the Rolance soldier to do much more than gasp when he hears Rose’s scream.  
_“Dezel!”_  
There’s a flood of malevolence, and Mikleo lets out a pained yell when the sword connects with his side in his sudden distraction. Thankfully, his armor _is_ good for something, but it still sinks a good inch in before Mikleo’s wings bat the man away with a well-aimed swipe.  
Then Sorey’s there, pressing against his uninjured side briefly before taking out the man behind.  
“We need to fall back!” Sorey shouts near his ear, and there’s pain in his voice.  
Mikleo does not feel good about any of this.

Dezel’s death is just a reminder of what happens in this war, to seraphim. Zaveid curses the world and drinks. Edna falls uncharacteristically silent, most likely thinking of her fallen brother. Lailah gives farewell in her own odd way- and Mikleo just sits, staring at the chip in the wooden table in their barracks. Lailah had healed his side, concern etching lines in her face, and Mikleo had brushed off her worries with a few well-placed lies.  
Sorey was...gone. Probably helping to bury him.  


Mikleo knew he was close. His headaches were getting worse. His vision swam with black whenever he stood up. His feathers were falling, more so than ever before. His prayer to divert the arrow that had struck Zaveid had barely worked, only working enough to graze him.  
He could only hope to last to the end of the war.  
He had to.  
For Sorey.

“Mikleo,” Sorey calls from the door of the barracks, and Mikleo’s quite comfortable where he is, thank you, so he makes an irritated noise under the blankets. He’s spent their sect’s off day sleeping in, and he’s still throughly enjoying the warmth of his blankets.  
“What?”  
“Just... _come_ with me.” Sorey says, and Zaveid snorts unhelpfully from somewhere in the background. He’s like the damn peanut gallery.  
Mikleo glares. “What are you, ten?”  
“Out of ten,” Zaveid fires back, and Mikleo would almost be impressed by the retort if he wasn’t so goddamn _infuriating._  
“Do you ever shut up?” Mikleo snaps back, snippy, and stops when Sorey’s hand lands on his shoulder. Sorey looks like he’s trying to bite back a grin.  
“Mikleo,” he says, and that’s all he says. In that stupid tone of voice he knows Mikleo’s weak to.  


“Fine, fine.” Mikleo says, rolling his eyes. He’s quietly pleased about the hand Sorey’s forgotten about, warm and nice and comforting.  
It isn’t missed by Zaveid though. “Hey, loverboys, take it somewhere else.”  
That’s all it takes before Mikleo’s pissed, _again._ Zaveid has the unique talent of getting under his skin in the impressive span of two seconds.  
“Why do you feel the need to-” Mikleo starts, but Sorey tugs him up and drags him off before he can finish, still looking unfairly amused at the exchange.  
“What is it?” Mikleo asks, eyeing Sorey warily, but Sorey’s just grinning, looking ridiculously adorable.  
“I have something for you,” Sorey chirps, and opens his other hand, presenting him with a beautiful forget-me-not, albeit slightly crumpled.  


Mikleo’s face instantly goes red, and he stutters for a few embarrassing moments before his mouth works properly again. Kind of. “U-uh, where’d you- where’d you-”  
Sorey’s watching him with quiet amusement, fondness in his endearing smile. “Me and Lailah went to the forest earlier for a walk. You know, off day and all that. It just reminded me of you.”  
“Reminded me of you? I mean, you of me?” Mikleo frowns in confusion, although he gently plucks the flower from Sorey’s hands. He feels a little flustered, well, a lot, but he can still appreciate the vivid blue color and gently curved petals. The gift’s actually...really nice. And thoughtful.  


“It was…” Sorey clears his throat. “Just as pretty.”  
Mikleo’s eyes dart up to find him blushing a little, smiling at him with a pinch of hopefulness.  
Well...he doesn’t know how the hell to respond to that. What did it mean? What was Sorey saying? _Why_ was he saying it?  
“Th-thank you,” Mikleo stammers. Sorey seems to sense his confusion.  


“I know that...this war is hard on you. On everyone. And we haven’t spent time like this in a while.” Sorey says. “I guess what I’m trying to say is- hey, are you okay?”  
Mikleo’s swaying on his feet. He’d known, since Dezel’s death. He knew he wasn’t going to last long. But he hadn’t expected it to strike now, and he was angry at his stupid body for giving up on him _now,_ of all the inopportune times.  
“I’m fine,” Mikleo says, and then he passes out.

When he wakes up, it’s to Sorey’s worried face and his own shoulders shaking. It takes him a moment to realize that Sorey’s actually the one shaking his shoulders in an attempt to wake him up. His vision is kind of fuzzy at the edges.  
“Mikleo, what-”  
Mikleo blinks. His vision doesn’t resolve itself. “Huh?”  
“You fainted.”  
“Oh.” Mikleo’s wings shift under his shirt, tightly folded. “Huh. I guess I forgot to eat breakfast.”  


“Tell me the _truth,_ ” Sorey’s voice is shaking, and his eyes look angry, almost desperate. Mikleo swallows, but he doesn’t say anything.  
There’s a brief, pointed silence. Mikleo feels a growing sense of unease in his stomach, and the next words only serve to make it coil further.  
“Fine. Show me your wings.” Mikleo’s never seen Sorey this angry, this upset.  
“No.”  
“You’re hiding!” Sorey narrows his eyes. “You’ve put armor over them since we joined! _Show me_ your wings.”  


Mikleo’s tired. He’s so tired. Maybe that’s why he gives in, and stands up. He wavers, vision going familiarly black again, and has to force himself not to fall this time.  
He draws the shirt over his head. He’s almost glad he hadn’t had to put on his armor today, because it would’ve been a much longer process. He curls the white fabric in his fingers, looking back up to Sorey.  
“Mikleo…”  
Sorey’s voice is soft, wavering. This, coupled with his stunned gaze, is just too much. Mikleo has to avert his eyes, the muscles on his back contorting to shift his wings behind him. As if he could fix them.  


It's why he doesn't see Sorry approach, the soft crunch of grass underfoot the only warning he has before Sorey’s warm, _oh-so-human_ fingers are resting on his shoulders.  
He refuses to meet his eyes. He can only wonder at the scarred, black patch of grass a few yards away.  
Sorey's breath ghosts over the skin of his neck, making him shiver despite Mikleo’s attempt at ignoring him. The fingers slip slowly towards the _things_ on his back, and Mikleo bites his lip, but he doesn’t shift away.  
His fingers smooth over the expanse of patched, rumpled feathers. Mikleo shudders at the touch. It’s been so long. Before the war, Sorey had always played with them- now, it’s oversensitive, and the hands on his wings are almost too much.  


Mikleo can feel when Sorey’s hands cross bare patches.  
Sorey inhales sharply, tipping his head into Mikleo’s shoulders. Sorey’s shoulders shake when he cries. Mikleo is too tired, so tired, and he doesn’t know how to fix it.  
“You need to go back,” Sorey says, mouth on his skin. “You need to go back. Please.”  
“No,” Mikleo says. “I’m not leaving.”  
“This is killing you!”  
“I _can’t._ ”  
Sorey sniffles, hair tickling Mikleo’s neck. “ _Please,_ Mikleo.”  
“I’m not changing my mind.”  


Sorey hiccups on a sob, pulling his head back, and Mikleo meets his eyes.  
His eyes are wrought with the kind of despair Mikleo can’t say no to. His tears are heartbreaking, and it makes Mikleo almost feel bad enough to leave.  
But Sorey’s human. He can break. He’s so achingly vulnerable, out there.  
“Sorey, I can’t. I need you to stay safe,” Mikleo whispers.  
Sorey opens his mouth, but he knows, better than anyone, that he can’t just keep begging. That Mikleo needs more than that. “You’re not much help like this.”  
The words are almost harsh, but they’re true.  


“Go back to Camlann’s forest. Just get better,” Sorey’s mouth twists. “If you fall, you could kill all of us. You know what fallen are like. You’d do more harm than good if you stayed here.”  
That...there’s no real thing he can say to that. It’s true. Fallen angels were cursed, with nothing but evil intent; their only purpose was to destroy everything in their path. If he did fall, then he could very well _kill_ Sorey, and do everything he’s been working against.  


Mikleo knows he’s close. He’s so very, very close. The war had only edged his hatred into a sword, pointed at himself, and he was well on the path to losing himself.  
“I’ll come to you. I promise,” Sorey says, and his face is so serious Mikleo can’t help but believe him. “I promise. When this is all over, I’ll come to you. It’ll be the first thing I do.”  
Mikleo exhales, slowly, and rests his forehead against Sorey’s. Exhaustion has eliminated any embarrassment or anxiety he could have. “Okay,” he says, and interlaces their fingers. “Okay. You’re right.”  
Sorey’s expression relaxes in such profound relief that he smiles, finally. “Good,” he says, and cups Mikleo’s jaw with his free hand. “I’m...so happy, Mikleo. Thank you.”  
Mikleo just tries to smile. Sorey’s eyes are warm. 

The walk to the forest is almost a battle in itself. He doesn’t know he manages to make it; his movements are sluggish, and his limbs threaten to give way in his weariness. He almost stops at Camlann, but he remembers the stones and pain and malevolence. In the army, wings hadn’t mattered, for the first time in his life. But he’d grown too used to it. He knows that Camlann would never welcome him, and in his state, he wouldn’t be able to defend himself.  
His vision is a little clearer, away from the battlefield. Sorey had been right, but leaving still eats at him. Mikleo was truly, achingly alone in his slow walk back to where he’d grown up.  


He misses Natalie and Mason and the few other seraphim he'd met before settling in Elysia. They’d left him to his own devices for most of his life; they were older seraphim, after all, and time moved differently for them.   
He doesn’t want to risk seeing them. He is tainted, and the malevolence from the battlefield still has its hold; he’s afraid that if he goes, they will try to help.  
So when he reaches the edge of the forest, he takes only a few more steps in before sinking to the ground.  
Sleep comes easy.

Time feels relative, now more than ever. The days on the battlefield had felt short, dragged on only by the constant burden of malevolence, staining the sky dark and tearing at him, skin heavy and hands trembling. The occasional day their sect had been granted would move so swiftly, full of laughter and brief elation, it would be only minutes before he was immersed in darkness again, casting sigil after sigil and aching.  
Now, though, it’s almost worse. Mikleo cannot heal; though the malevolence does not press as thick, he is still trapped in the confines of his own mind. He despises how the malevolence affects him; this, in turn, still has him losing feathers.  


Granted, he is not on the edge anymore. And he will not become fallen, now. Even if he does, he can’t hurt Sorey here. This is the only thing that helps him, some days.  
He knows he has little magic. That his prayers are weak, almost rendered ineffective by his own body. But it’s all he does these days; in the long slide of hours, he only prays, desperate to save Sorey when he cannot be there himself.  
There are so many things that can wound humans. Anything could happen- a stray arrow, a cast sigil, a chink in armor and the slice of a sword- and it makes Mikleo afraid, so afraid that he cannot breathe sometimes.  


The constant loneliness makes his day longer. He knows he should be grateful that he has escaped the war intact, but he cannot help but long for a smile; Sorey’s, or some words. He talks to himself, and to squirrels, sometimes. It’s the only thing that keeps his voice alive.  
He hangs on to one thing, to keep himself from going mad. Sorey’s promise.  
Sorey would come back. That, he should not doubt despite his worries.  
He had promised. 

\------------------

The battle line had retreated. Sorey had heard it was some sort of strategic move- Camlann was the perfect chokepoint- but all it does is worry him. Their final battle, and all of the malevolence would be close to Mikleo, again. After he’d been so affected by the battlefield... _Mikleo. Sorey’s_ strength always comes from him. When he’s tired, when his arms shake and his legs threaten to leave him, he always finds himself blocking the next parry, dodging the next cast arte. It’s one of the few things that drive him- his dream is looking like nothing, like merely a pipe dream, and on the rough days he considers doing what Mikleo had wanted all along, just leaving and forgetting everything but the two of them.  
But he had walked into this. And he _has_ to walk out, because the binding words of his promise left him with no other choice. He looked forward to the day that he would see Mikleo again.  


Mikleo would smile. Say, _welcome home._ They’d hug, so tightly nothing else mattered. His wings would wrap around them, warm and so soft, and Mikleo would heal and they would look whole again.  
This is what he thinks about on the rougher days.  
He wonders if Mikleo is doing well. If he’s fallen. If he’s fine. There are so many possibilities, shades of color in a watered landscape of chance, and he can do nothing but swing his sword and hope for the best.  
He feels almost helpless. But he also feels the cold drive of his own determination, and he _knows_ they will win at Camlann.  


“Sorey, you ready for this?”  
It’s Rose.  
He nods, sharp, and gets to his feet. “Are you?”  
“Well, I don’t have all this armor on for nothing,” Rose says. “You didn’t forget your sword, did you? You’re always forgetting your head.”  
Sorey smiles. He doesn’t know how Rose is so steady throught it all; though Sorey has seen her cry, seen her after Dezel’s death. She always has the strength to joke, and it never fails to cheer him up. “When do we leave?”  
“Oh, lemme check my watch,” Rose gives a pointed look at her wrist, bare of anything except her leather gauntlets. “14 o’ six.”  
Sorey laughs. “Okay, okay. I’m guessing now.”  


“That’s right! Why else would I be fetching you?” Rose chirps. “C’mon, Lailah and the others are getting in formation. We can’t be late.”  
“You mean Zaveid’s _not_ late?”  
Rose shrugs. “I never said that.”  
Sorey laughs, again. It all feels like too much. How many more moments would he get like this? How many times could he laugh, with Rose, when she might die at Camlann? When _he_ might...  
Now wasn’t the time for doubts.  
He’s following his promise.  
“We’d better find Zaveid, then,” Sorey says.  
\----------------------------------------------------------

“Why would they retreat?”  
Finally, a voice of reason in the council. Alisha’s so frustrated, but she can’t express it lest she lose face. She’s only one woman, merely there to serve as a negotiator (she suspects that the council had hoped for a Rolance soldier to stab her while she’d been working towards a peace treaty in their camp), and she doesn’t have much authority in the first place. This has been the root of several problems.  


“I believe they have retreated to Camlann,” Alisha says, and points at the appropriate place on the large map set on the table in front of them. The map is littered with markings of strategic positions and indications of the location of the Rolance army and their own. “I do not think pursuing them is a wise course of action. Camlann is a place of strategic advantage, and we may well lose if we face them there.”  
Her guard stands behind her, silent. She is the only one with military knowledge who can attempt to persuade the council, and it doesn’t bode well. They’ve never listened to her before. Bartlow’s retreated to his manor- probably too much proximity to danger for him- and that, at least, she can be grateful for.  


“That may be true, but we can’t just leave them be,” The man by her side says. He’s Hyland’s commander of the army, a smart man that Alisha holds some grudging respect towards. “If we don’t move, we’re at a standstill. Our supplies won’t hold out that long.”  
“Then we move towards peace again!” Alisha tries, not for the first time. “I see no point in pursuing an unwise decision, and war is just as easily ended. We don’t need to march towards our deaths- I know Rolance is seeking peace as well, when I met Sergei he said-”  
“Do you have so little trust in this army?” The leader of the church says, glaring at her behind his glasses. “We need to teach Rolance a lesson, or they’ll never stop attacking our lands.”  
“We must end this, once and for all,” another councellor says.  


Alisha grinds her teeth, jaw tight. “I was saying that this war is unnecessary, and harmful to the country. Supplies are running low because production has been _suspended_ because of all the farmers you’ve enlisted.”  
“So we take supplies from Rolance.”  
Alisha’s hands curl where they’re resting on the map. “If we simply work towards a treaty, then continuing to enroll soldiers will not be required, and production can resume without needless loss of life-”  
“The death of a Rolance soldier is a victory for Hyland,” the economist says.  


“You’re sending our men out to die!” Alisha finally shouts, slamming her palm down on the map. There’s an edge of desperation in her voice. “Rolance has the _advantage_ here, and I _know_ you gave minimal training to the farmers you drafted-”  
“Why should we trust your advice?” the bespectled church leader shoots back. “You’ve been sowing discord among the ranks-”  
“I have done no such thing!” Alisha’s shocked at the accusation. Sure, she’d expected resistance from the council, but aiming to strip away her authority entirely...she wasn’t prepared for it. Her personal guard shifts nervously behind her, two inches from speaking up.  
“You’ve probably been working with Rolance behind our backs,” the militant commander speaks beside her, and Alisha turns her eyes on him. “I do not wish to admit it, but it’s possible you’re a Rolance spy. We cannot rule this suspicion out, seeing as you have led us to only one victory.”  


Alisha narrows her eyes, infuriated. “I’ve only been working for a peace treaty with them! And we’ve suffered many losses because, as I said before, you’re consistently hiring soldiers with no prior training, and the civilians are suffering for it!”  
“It’s true- Alisha would not betray Hyland,” Alisha’s guard captain says boldly, and the council’s eyes turn to her.  
Alisha would appreciate the concern, but she did not wish for the council’s attention to be on her guard. “At ease,” Alisha orders. “Please, go-”  
“A guard has no place in this room!” the leader of the church barks. “You’ve had them at every meeting- what if one of them is a spy?”  
Alisha bites her tongue, withdrawing her hands from the map. They hang at her side. “Please, wait outside.”  


With a few glances at her, her personal guard complies, worry evident in their expressions. As soon as they’re safely outside, the manager of the economy speaks up. “This is merely an example of the distrust of the council you’ve spread in the army thus far. The soldiers’ allegiances cannot be to you.”  
Hands, grabbing her wrists. Alisha starts, elbowing something hard. It’s a metal mask- two of the guards of the commander have approached her behind her back. Their hands are iron around her, and she struggles against the grip.  
“What is the meaning of this?” Alisha hisses, desperately trying not to panic.  


“Alisha Diphda, you are hereby arrested for spreading dissent and discord and associating with the enemy,” one of the guards holding her says, voice muffled slightly by the protective armor. It was too well-practiced; the whole thing could only have been staged, and Alisha curses sending her guards outside. She’s seeing red.  
Alisha snaps. “This is foolish! You’re sending our men to _death-_ ”  
“Please, get her out of here,” the leader of the church says, solemn, and Alisha has no option but to struggle against the guards every step of the way.

 

\---------------------------------  
Zaveid in tow, they manage to squeeze into the rows of marching soldiers with their sect before a higher-in-command notices. It’s possible the higher-ups are simply distracted by the prospect of the final battle; that, or there’s no point disciplining soldiers now. Sorey just vaguely hopes they hadn’t noticed at all.  
The march is short. The battle line had pushed back to only half a day’s walk from Camlann the day before, and soon enough Sorey can see the silhouette of his home village. It’s still concerning; Sorey knows that Gramps and the other villagers would’ve been forced to evacuate already, but the prospect of the village being destroyed leaves his eyebrows furrowed.  
And Mikleo...  
Mikleo’s so close. For the first time in days.  


He can’t think about it for long, or he would go insane. Instead, he keeps full focus on the barked commands and tasks ahead.  
Well, he tries, anyway. He hears the yells, of course he does, but his ears don’t really process it, and then their sect’s moving and he turns to Lailah with a question on his lips.  
“Uh...what’s going on?”  
“You weren’t paying attention? Oh, dear,” Lailah sings, and Sorey gives her a sheepish look. “The Hyland army is advancing,” Edna says before Lailah can answer. “Idiots. They’re walking into a trap.”  
“Why would they come after us?” Sorey’s thinking of the peace negotiator, Alisha, that had been at the camp for a brief amount of time. She’d seemed nice, he supposed.  
“I’m afraid I don’t have a good answer,” Lailah says from behind her hand. “Humans have many reasons for doing things, I think.”  


“We’ve been put front and center,” Rose interjects, and Sorey recoils.  
“What?”  
“Yeah, I know. Not great, but, well…” This is probably the first time Sorey’s ever seen Rose lost for words.  
“Nice knowing you,” Edna says, in the exact blank tone of voice.  
“Hey, we’ll get through!” Sorey says, trying his best to channel his optimism. “We’ve gotten this far, right? It’s just one more battle.”  


“Damn straight!” Rose declares, looking more energized.  
“That’s the spirit!” Lailah adds.  
“You’re exhausting,” Edna says, but she just looks resigned to it.  
“We’ll get all the glory,” Zaveid adds in helpfully. “Imagine...ladies left and right…”  
Sorey shakes his head at him, and Rose just sighs in exasperation while Edna rolls her eyes. 

The battle is bloody. Which should be expected, but when Sorey catches a moment to breathe, he can feel it, scabbed over his skin, dried and rough. His armor feels almost stiff, and his sword looks like it’s been stained a brown-red. Sorey hates killing; hates wars, doesn’t know why he came anymore except to fight for his own hopes. When he closes his eyes, he sees a man spasm on his sword; when Mikleo had been here, they’d curl together so tight it was nothing but a memory, lost and forgotten and unimportant, almost, in their shared warmth. None of the others ever teased them about it, even Zaveid. The nights he’d been away, there’d been nothing for Sorey to distract himself with.  
It wasn’t just Sorey. Everyone woke up gasping sometimes, rousing the others.  


They played cards until dawn when it happened. They were together, united, and sleep didn’t matter.  
He only regrets the lack of sleep over the past week now, with mind-numbing exhaustion dragging at his limbs. It’s hard, so hard to keep fighting, even with the ruthless endurance regime they’d suffered under so long ago.  
“Sorey!” Lailah yells.  


Sorey turns quick enough to parry the strike that had been aimed at him, achingly grateful for his sect, now more than ever. They’d saved each other so many times no one bothered to keep count of the debt. “Sorry!”  
“Sorey, need you over here!” Rose shouts, and Sorey obliges, darting past a few struggling soldiers. He intervenes in one on the way, a Hyland soldier two inches away from dealing the final blow to a man Sorey had seen in the mess hall once or twice.  
“Thanks,” the man grunts, turning to his comrade, and Sorey wipes at the bleeding gash over his right eye, blinking to clear it.  


He’s a soldier, not a knight, here. It’s why he carefully doesn’t think about the life he’d just taken- _a woman, probably with friends and loved ones, who would be mourned in the aftermath of this horrific battle_ \- and straightens, making his way to Rose.  
It doesn’t take long to reach her. They were, after all, stationed in the same general area.  
Rose is fighting off two soldiers, knives glinting in the sun. It’s not what she’d called Sorey over for- they’d had to ward off higher numbers over the past few months- but Sorey steps in anyway, taking the second by surprise while Rose stabs the first.  


The other guy- _surprisingly young_ \- does manage to get a hit in, sinking past the armor over his hip as Sorey twists to avoid what would’ve been a fatal score. His grunt is pained as he blocks the next strike.  
When it’s over, another life gone, Sorey asks in the moment before more soldiers take their place. “What?”  


“Seraph,” Rose hisses, one hand gripping at her shoulder. There’s blood coating her fingers, and Sorey spares a concerned glance at the wound. She didn’t appear to be _majorly_ injured, but a healing sigil would probably do wonders. For all of them, but they couldn’t really ask for healing from the seraphs when they were forced to relentlessly cast battle sigils. “Over...at two o’clock, she keeps...hindering Lailah and the others with illusions…"  
“On it,” Sorey says immediately. It would be stupid to charge in on a powerful seraph alone, so he gets a spare prayer from Edna before he makes his way towards her, slashing through soldiers and dodging, dodging so many strikes he has to wonder how he’s still alive.  
The seraph is small in stature, but she has striking jet-black wings, and Sorey can see glimpses of dark purple feathers when the armor over them shifts.  


Sorey knew it would be impossible to sneak up on her, but he certainly wasn’t expecting her to see him so _soon._ Her dark purple eyes narrow on him from yards away, and she leans back on one foot, casting a sigil with rapid focus.  
He doesn’t recognize the sigil, so he doesn’t know the best way to avoid it. He can only turn to block another soldier’s attack, watching from the corner of his eye.  
Darkness swells over her form, and Sorey briefly remembers what Rose had said- _illusions_ \- before he’s alone, in a landscape of sculpted sand, entirely unremarkable in form.  


Sorey glances around, eyes wide, and looks down to find his sword, still in his hand. It’s resistant when he twists it, and he remembers something about sinking his sword into a man’s stomach before the world had gone empty. He yanks backward, and his suspicions are confirmed when fresh blood drips from his blade.  
He’s been effectively rendered blind. On the front lines of a battlefield.  
His breath comes faster, adrenaline racing through his veins. Panic has his vision doubling- or maybe it’s the blood loss- and he swings blindly, remembering how only moments before he’d had to block strikes left and right, and how he isn’t sure if he can possibly manage now.  


His sword hits something hard and metal- _helmet, sword, chestplate?_ \- and yeah, he’s definitely panicking a little.  
“Lailah! Edna! Zaveid!” Sorey calls, and shouts when pain rips through his side. His next cough brings up blood, and he tries to swing at the trajectory he’d been hit in. His sword slides through empty air, throwing him off balance, and the movement makes the jagged gash in his side light up with fire.  


“Rose!” He screams, screwing up his eyes as another invisible attacker slices his dominant shoulder. Sorey wheezes, tastes blood in his mouth again- from internal injury, or biting his tongue, he didn’t know, and it was terrifying- and gasps as something cold, very cold goes _through_ him, and then he blinks and then there’s color, so much color he has to blink again and he doesn’t feel anything at all.  
“Sorey!”  
Zaveid’s voice. Sorey never thought he’d be relieved to hear it.  


Except- his stomach twists, and he gasps but there’s something in his throat, and then he’s looking down and it’s a sword, a sword pulling out of _him._ It’s morbid fascination that takes him over as he watches what could only have been fighting him in his temporary blindness smooth out of his body, and then he crumples to the ground.  
“Sorey, buddy,” the thing that’s Zaveid’s voice swims in his ears, and then the soldiers all around them are flung away, and there’s hands on his shoulders and he wants to sleep, now more than ever.  
“Zaveid,” Sorey tries to say, but the words never leave his mouth. He’s just staring at Zaveid- not half naked, and it almost makes him giggle. A smile twitches at his lips.  
Zaveid curses. “Lailah fell, Sorey- we need to get out of here-”  


Sorey’s head tilts. Fell? Lailah? The words take far too long to register, and Zaveid’s already speaking again.  
“She just took out the enemy seraph, but listen, she fell and Edna’s holding her off right now but we _need to leave_ \- oh, damnit.”  
Nothing matters. The ground’s comfortable. The sounds of battle have left his ears; they’re faint, muted, and Sorey silently appreciates the quiet. Even his vision’s blurry, and he can lay like this and pretend he isn’t here.  


But then, it all floods back into painful focus. There’s just _hurt_ and Sorey gasps on a rattling inhale, and he can see Zaveid now- he’d been on the black edges of his vision- and Zaveid’s eyes are tired and Sorey can see the fading edges of a sigil, a sigil that could only have been healing.  
“Sheps, get the hell out of here,” Zaveid says before he stands, and his body glows green as he starts to caste another arte.  


Sorey struggles to his feet. He doesn’t know where he’s going, or why; he just staggers forward, towards a forest he’d walked to all his life. There’s a suspicious lack of soldiers, and when Sorey’s eyes move a little, almost not _him_ moving, he sees fire, so much fire, and the heat in his face makes more sense. The ground is rumbling under his feet, and his thoughts vaguely trail to Edna as he makes his way, slow, to the first tree.  
He moves without a thought after that. All his focus is on going, going forwards; but he still doesn’t know why and he doesn’t care anymore.  
\------------

Mikleo had come across him on accident; he’d felt the weight of malevolence crushing on his chest. Like a fool, he hadn’t retreated; he was in such a poor state, but he had felt and _known,_ known that it was a battle and he was worried and lonely and he wanted answers so he had started to make his way towards the edge of the forest.  
Just for a peek. Like he’d always tried to get himself to do as a child, to finally see Camlann for himself.  


He _had_ ended up seeing Camlann after all, when he’d left to catch up with Sorey. He’d flown over the forest, and caught a few glimpses for itself.  
It left a kind of wistful feeling as Mikleo walked, slowly, hands tracing across familiar trees to keep him steady.  
A twig snapped, somewhere roughly to the front and right of him, and though Mikleo was making plenty of noise by himself, he knew he hadn’t made it. He tensed, peering through the trees, but the only thing he could make out was a sword dragging against the ground. He had no choice but to continue, wondering if he could even defend himself at present. Hopefully, the other person was just retreating from the battle and wouldn’t hurt him.  


He skirts around a particularly large oak tree and comes face to face with Sorey.  
Sorey, Sorey with hazy and unfocused eyes, Sorey limping, hand pressed to his stomach, weakness in the tremble of his fingers, and something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong, and Mikleo’s blood runs cold.  
“What did you do? _What did you do?_ ” Mikleo shouts, catching him before Sorey’s wavering legs fail. He cradles him against his chest, and there’s blood, blood everywhere, slicking over his fingers.  


“I came...back,” Sorey says, and smiles through blood in his mouth. “I’m...sorry. I’m so sorry.”  
Mikleo had wished for his smile. He didn’t want it like this.  
“Don’t apologize,” Mikleo hisses. “You’re not leaving me, you _idiot_ -”  


His hands flutter, uselessly, trying to figure out where to go. He clutches at Sorey’s sides, winces when blood seeps over his fingers. Red, red. Everything’s red.  
His forehead pinches. He _has to heal, he has to heal, but he can’t_ \- he has so little left, and he can’t fix this, he can’t fix it, and he can’t do anything.  
“You’re going to be okay,” Mikleo chokes out, hating that he’d been born a seraph, and he couldn’t even _fix what he wanted, more than anything, to fix,_ and it was so _unfair-_  


“Mikleo,” Sorey murmurs. “Mikleo...I’m so...tired…”  
“I know, I know,” Mikleo’s tears land on his face, mixing with the blood from the gash on his forehead. It looks like a pastel pink when it mixes. Like it isn’t blood. Like Sorey isn’t…  
“You’re coming...right?” Sorey’s words are slurred. “I’ll see...you?”  
“Y-yes. Yes. Yes, you’ll see me.”  


“Oh...good,” Sorey says, eyes closed, and he doesn’t speak. Mikleo’s blood runs cold for an awful, prolonged moment, but Sorey’s mouth works again. “Mikleo…Mikleo, I...”  
“Sorey,” Mikleo’s face is so twisted it hurts. _Stop,_ he wants to say. _Stop bleeding. Stop talking like you’re going to die. Stop saying things and stop bleeding, stop bleeding, stop-_  
“Mikleo, I…”  
Mikleo waits.  


Sorey’s breathing slows. His eyelashes flutter, then still. He’s silent, again, and this time he doesn’t wet his bleeding lips and try to force words.  
Mikleo breaks.

He wishes. He wishes they had lived happily, past childhood. He wishes they could have a new life, he wishes they could be side by side, he wishes Sorey wasn’t bleeding, he wishes he wasn’t here, he wishes he didn’t have to wish for it all.  
A new life.  
He casts what little he has left and the black, familiar, washes over him in a tidal wave of darkness.  
He doesn’t feel anything after that.

 

 

His eyes open to the bright shine of the North Star, obscured partially by a tan and brown blur. Then a face blinks into clarity in his field of vision, and he finds himself staring at a relieved pair of green eyes.  
Then the eyes blink under long lashes, and the face retreats, replaced by a warm voice.  
“Hello.”  


Mikleo furrows his eyebrows at the brush of grass on his palms, and spares a moment to adjust his eyes to the light before he moves.  
He sits up, muscles groaning in protest, and looks.  
The boy in front of him has mussed brown hair- it’s giving Mikleo this weird urge to fix it- and clear green eyes set in a kind expression. Even his mannerisms are easily recognized- the way he messes the hair at the back of his neck is something Mikleo sees as habitual and itches at his memory. His eyebrows are quirked in bemusement, features soft but defined in his jawline.  


His face is achingly familiar.  
The boy’s hand is outstretched, patient. He takes it.  
His hand is warm and feels like home.  
He pulls him up off the grass, gaze flicking over Mikleo's form.  


“There’s this feeling…” the boy says. “I can’t shake. That I...know you.”  
Mikleo smiles. There’s something warm and hopeful fluttering in his chest. He doesn’t understand it, but it’s how his body is reacting. “I’m Mikleo.”  
“Mikleo…” the boy muses, and his name on his lips is, undoubtedly, something said before. Something forgotten.  
_Flashes, flashes of him, flashes of him. Wetness on his cheeks. Listening- Mikleo, Mikleo- in this voice that’s breaking, that’s weak. And there’s blood- so much blood- but there’s a laugh, bright and young. A shout, "I'll race you!"._  


“I’m Sorey,” the boy says, breaking him out of the strange trail of thoughts.  
Mikleo smiles, slow and wide. “I know.”  
And then they simply look at each other, hearts swelling. They take a step, two, before Sorey's hand searches out Mikleo’s again. Their fingers intertwine with a quiet smile and a hint of warmth, a sense of belonging.  


And they walk, under their shared stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again i'm here to remind you that the amazing looveel-realm is the artist who came up with the au and has wonderful art so please check them out! (if links aren't working, @looveel-realm on tumblr)
> 
> my amazing friend juni beta'd this! (@shiinamod)
> 
> "mikleo muses" is now my favorite set of words and no one will ever take it away from me because hA  
> i listened to Despacito on repeat literally the entire time i wrote this im not even lying fuck me  
> I hate justin bieber but im making an exception with this song damnit  
> i had no idea what the fuck the average lifespan of a marigold was, and i looked it up bc of this fic so now i know its goddamn four months thank u fic  
> i have graced u with knowledge
> 
> fun drinking game: drink every time you see a reference to the game  
> actually dont do that you'll die  
> anyways im gonna wrap up these notes
> 
> kudos and comments are appreciated! thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> i'd like to thank my lovely beta and friend, juni for going through this ~  
> i also give most of the credit to the lovely artist who created this au looveel-realm!! i had to put this twice because just wow go check out their art of the au and everything else! they were so very kind answering my questions  
> feel free to go yell at me about this on [tumblr](%E2%80%9Dleviafinns.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D)  
> the second chapter will be posted as soon as i finish formatting it! 
> 
> aa ok update i do not think the links are working so respectively my beta is (@shiinamod) on tumblr, the artist is (@looveel-realm) on tumblr, and i can be found at (@leviafinns)
> 
> every single time i think of this au i keep thinking of that one monty python holy grail scene where the french guy curses at them and pronounces knight "ka-nigget"
> 
> oh yeah! i was doing some research for this fic and that's how i found out that Aroundight Forest is canonically called the Forest of Perdition by neighboring humans and i just loved that tidbit so much i had to stick it in there
> 
> all kudos and comments are greatly appreciated and motivate me! thank you for reading!


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